


Bondstuck: Chasing Ghosts

by TinyAngryPuppy



Series: BONDSTUCK [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Spy, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyAngryPuppy/pseuds/TinyAngryPuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the discovery of a stolen cache of nuclear warheads comes to light, no law organization in the world is prepared to retaliate. All the nations of the world teeter on the brink of war, and only one man can save the day. </p><p>The only problem? They all want him dead. </p><p>Betrayed by the woman he trusted. Blamed for a crime he didn't commit. Wanted by the organization he called home. Now dashing ex-spy Dave Strider and sexy outlaw Vriska Serket must survive in a world where to do the right thing might cost more then they ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Silver Phantom

The Brigadier draws the curtains of his window, allowing a bit of dusty afternoon sunlight to stream into his office. With heavily-veined hands he rakes his hair, now sparse and silver. He watches the men outside running and sparring, some wearing weight vests and others an odd type of shoe with a little compartment for each toe. Sometimes the Brigadier thinks these modern times will be the death of him. He used to be so good with technology, always on the cutting edge. He used to bring cold metal to life with his own hands. Now, he thinks as he chuckles to himself, he marvels at rubber slippers.

  
He gazes at the placards adorning one wall of his office. They tell of a storied career spanning four decades, full of action and commendation, responsibility and honor. There’s a row of placards reserved for units he’s commanded, from his early years as a young company commander to the retirement plaque of the battalion whose leadership he’d been relieved of just last year. It was at that time he knew, beyond shadow of doubt, he’d never be awarded the rank of Major General.

It’s not that he’s not good at his job. He’s the best at whatever he attempts, if not at first then certainly before long. He throws himself at tasks to the exclusion of all distractions; his body is a finely-honed vessel for the unstoppable machine that is his will. As a soldier he’s earned distinction for his combat skills and as a commander he’s gained notoriety for turning out regiments of the most finely-disciplined special-operations operatives in the world. He doesn’t expect anyone to kiss his ass just because of his rank or position; he earns people’s respect the old-fashioned way. Of course, this also means he’s never been one to kiss ass himself. This might be why ranking officers have gone to bat for him to get him promoted at every stage of his career-- until he hit Brigadier, and then when the generals noticed he wasn’t about to stroke their egos undeservedly, their support dried up.

The Brigadier’s sharp, pale eyes trace along the wall, from his athletic trophies to his marksmanship ribbons to his very first tan beret; along the rows of formation photographs, the thousands of men he’s led into battle. His gaze lingers on his SAS flag, from the downward-pointed Excalibur, the Wings, and of course, the SAS’ well-known motto “Who Dares Wins”. He frowns. Why should looking at the emblem of his beloved corps fill him with such ennui? He’s tried his whole career to exemplify everything Sir David Stirling envisioned in a British regimental officer. But without action to stir his blood, he fears, he’s simply wasting away.

Outside his door he can hear his phone ring. His secretary, a lieutenant by the name of Lois Pettigrew, picks it up and says something that is muffled by the thick oaken door. By the rhythm of her words, he deduces whomever she’s speaking to is in a hurry. The Brigadier’s frown becomes a thin smile. Maybe something will finally come up that will make him feel alive again. Something that will test him, as he used to love being tested, being pushed to his very limits and emerging victorious.

Pettigrew stops talking and a second later the phone on his desk rings. He picks it up, his chest swelling slightly with excitement and hope beyond hope for just one taste of the adventures he used to have. “This is Brigadier Dirk Strider.”

He’d recognize the voice on the other line anywhere. “Bro? It’s me. Something big is about to go down. How fast can you get to London?”


	2. LA VIE EN ROSE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Roachpatrol for her stellar editing!

The Englishman had been winning too much tonight. The Casino has policies about this. Guests are supposed to win sometimes, of course but there are ratios to how much any one guest should win on a given night. Typically when a guest, especially a foreigner, wins more than about a thousand Euros in a row, it's time to investigate. So the Investigator sits down at the console that oversees the Casino's network of cameras via joystick and begins to investigate. He's already sent a relatively clear picture of the man's face to the federal database for identification.

He had started out on the roulette, putting five crumpled twenties down on the felt surface, betting on red. Red won. He asked for his winnings in chips. Then he went to the Baccarat tables. One-fifty became seven-fifty became fifteen hundred. In just three hands he'd multiplied his winnings by ten. It was then that the Investigator noticed something odd when comparing the security camera footage from the roulette table to that of the card table. There were very few guests in common at both locations, but one stood out to him. A troll woman, taller than average, in a sparkling black dress trimmed in a slightly lighter material-- the cameras are in black and white so he can't guess her hemocaste, but probably pretty high-- with a long-stemmed cigarette holder between her fingers. In both frames she stands about ten feet away from the the Englishman, a distance that betrays their conspiracy. 

The Investigator moves the joystick-operated camera to follow the blond man as he crosses the casino floor to a Texas Hold 'Em table with his stack of hundred-Euro chips. He sits down in an an empty seat, and sure enough, the woman follows him. He trades a chip for a few smaller ones and antes. She stands a small distance behind him, pretending to check her makeup in a compact. From the angle of the camera he doesn't notice anything strange about the compact, but he does notice the dealer and the other male patrons sneaking glances at her quite a bit. He looks at the two cards he's dealt, then pushes a cursory chip forward. The dealer takes a couple seconds to notice and deal the flop, but the other guests aren't even paying attention. The Inspector furrows his brow-- maybe it's because the resolution isn't great on this camera, but he doesn't see what's so appealing about the woman. She's beautiful, sure, but there are plenty of beautiful women in the Casino that night. With the way they're staring at her you'd think she was naked in the middle of the floor. 

Between the turn and the river, though, is when something really interesting happens. The dealer announces the stakes and one other patron raises, then both men's heads turn back towards the woman. She's fumbled something out of her purse-- a tube of lipstick-- and it fell onto the floor. Conspicuously, she bends at the hip to pick it up, the shimmering material of her short dress rising further and further up her long legs, drawing every eye at the table. Every eye except those of the Englishman. _Bastard_ , thinks the Inspector. _Nothing he hasn't seen before, I'd bet._  

But if the Inspector was mad before, the Englishman's next move makes him furious. While the rest of the table is distracted, he turns in the direction they're facing and  surreptitiously _palms_ one of his cards. The balls on this guy! He just scoops it up into the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket, leaving another card in its place in the same position, same punch-mark and everything. The woman stands upright and adjusts the hem of her skirt, fanning her cheekily-grinning face and pretending to be embarrassed. She immediately heads toward the exit. The Inspector clicks his radio on and tells the Security Chief to apprehend her before she leaves the casino. He looks back and sees the round is over-- The Englishman won with an astounding full house, and as he rakes the huge pile of chips towards himself, the Inspector could swear he sees a hint of a smirk. Even as he lifts the radio to alert the Security Chief of the man's transgression, he's got all the chips gathered up. He's quick, this one. 

No guard comes. The Inspector shouts into the radio at the security chief, demands to know what's going on. It doesn't matter than no answer comes-- what he sees on one of his monitors he'd never have believed anyway. The woman from before, one arm around each of the two guards, singing and dancing a _can-can!_ The men stumble along, their clumsy movements suggesting some kind of chemical influence. Did she drug them? But wait-- the way the other guests were looking at her earlier... the effortless way she subdued his guards... could this be one of the psychic trolls he'd been warned about, who could bend Troll and Human alike to their will? He always thought they were a myth! She gives each man a peck on the cheek and slips out from between them, just as the Englishman crosses several security monitors and suddenly is standing at her side, right in front of the grand entrance. Arm in arm, the pair walk out of the casino, burdened only by their ten thousand or more illicitly-gained Euros. 

The Inspector pounds his console. Almost as if in reaction, a notification pops up on the main screen. The face-matching search turned up a hit. That cowlick, those shades, that impassive glare-- those could be a coincidence. But the scar on the right cheek, that's not so easily forged. " _Strider. Dave Strider_ ," mutters the Inspector. He hits print, and holds the sheet of paper up to the light. It almost seems to sneer back at him. 

He reaches for the nearest phone and punches the keys with eager, spiteful fingers. 

It rings three times, then clicks. “ _Nachalʹnik?_ ” he says, “ _Da. Nashli anglichanin._ ”

_____________

“Hahaha! This was fuckin’ awesome!” laughs Vriska, grabbing a fistful of Euros and tossing them into the air, raising her arms as they rain down around her onto the hotel bed.

Dave glowers. “It did go well for my first time cheating at a casino. But I’m telling you I could have just won the money. We didn’t have to do that.”

“Pssh, what’s the harm in it? The whole point of a casino is to go and get free money! What’s it matter how you do it?”

“That’s-- well, I get your point, but when they prove me innocent of killing the Legislacerators chief, I just want to be able to say I obeyed the law during my time running from the law. If nothing else then for the irony.”

“Oh, like they’ll even care that you knocked over one French casino. Hell, they’ll probably give you a medal!”

“They don’t have medals, it’s a civilian...” Dave’s argument is briefly suspended by the sight of Vriska sliding the shoulder straps of her sparkly dress down her shoulders, tightening the skin on her collarbones and bringing the swell of her decolletage into sudden focus. 

“Dave, this is weird! All the cash in here is making my clothes fall off! I wonder if it’s going to affect you too?!” She slides the straps off and turns around, offering Dave her zipper.

Dave doesn’t hesitate to cross the large hotel bed to the grey-skinned girl, gathering her hair and drawing the little zipper down her back. “I think I do feel something akin to an increase in gravity affecting my tuxedo.” The shimmering material pools around Vriska’s waist, and she gathers her hair up to fasten it in a quick updo, framed between her uneven horns.

“Dave. My neck,” she gasps, hands groping at him behind her back; Dave doesn’t have to look to know her eyes are closed. He leans down and kisses her ear, then trails slowly down her neck and draws her body closer to his with his arm. But then he hesitates.

“Vriska, my darling. I want-- no, I need you to make me a promise.”

“What?” exhales Vriska sharply.

“I need you to not… make me do things like that anymore. I may not be a hero anymore, but I’m just not ready to become a villain.”

Vriska turns around, covering her breasts with a slender arm, and for a moment she looks into his eyes without saying anything. Then she slowly, deliberately, removes her arm and begins to unbutton Dave’s tuxedo shirt. His brow furrows but his eyes remain steely. She opens his shirt and brings her lips to his chest, then looks up at him. “We’ll see.”

_____________

Unlike many cities in which Dave Strider has woken up, in Paris you have to check the weather report every morning. It’s May, which means different things in different places, but in Paris it doesn’t mean much at all; yesterday was sunny and humid but the day before was dry and it showered for fifteen minutes in the afternoon, when he and Vriska were enjoying biscuits and Nutella on the balcony of their apartment. Vriska had laughed in fascination when a solitary fat raindrop put out her cigarette. Dave almost smiled.

He drags himself out of bed and looks at himself in the mirror. His blond hair is getting long-- for the first time in years locks hang over his ears and his bangs reach as far down as his eyes. He’d always kind of wanted to grow his hair out to see what it would look like, but public school and then military obligations precluded him from much variety, so before the events of last summer he’d been combing his hair in a neat part and fading the sides and back for nearly twenty years. He runs a hand through the untidy mess, and marvels at the weight of it.

Living on the lam with Vriska has changed him physically. Blessed with a fast metabolism and a body quick to put on muscle, he’s always had a good physique, and running and swimming did a lot for him when he had a schedule that allowed for it. But running requires a time investment his current lifestyle simply doesn’t allow for, and swimming even less so. So he’s resorted to mostly anaerobic exercises, with which he’s managed to stay fit with about twenty minutes’ work a three times a week. His stomach is no longer as flat, but his arms are bigger, and while he can’t run as long without breathing hard, he can do a hundred push-ups in just under a minute and a half.

Vriska makes fun of him for it constantly. Dave’s never seen her work out at all, though the thought of her in workout clothes has entertained his fancy more than once;  despite her laziness, she always looks like she just stepped off the cover of a women’s fitness magazine. One time when they were drunk she explained it as “a highblood’s hatchright”, and when considering that blue-blooded monstrosity he’d encountered on the Ampora case with Jade Harley, or the lunatic clown Gamzee Makara’s uncanny strength, it made sense.

He puts on a pair of trousers from his neatly-organized dresser and a hoodie sweater he’d bought at a flea market somewhere. Vriska is still lying in bed, her severe features angelic in sleep, and her chest rises and falls slowly, covered only by the thinnest of sheets. Nonetheless, he’s careful and quiet when he pulls the shoebox out from under the bed. He walks gingerly to the kitchen of their one-bedroom apartment and puts the shoebox down on the table. Removing the lid, he takes out his Walther PPK and two empty magazines.

For the next half hour, Dave practices with his pistol. He had to buy one in Amsterdam, and it cost him a fortune with no papers of documentation. But it’s real, and it works. He practices with it every day, waking up early if necessary. Vriska argues it’s pointless, since he seldom takes it with him anywhere. He replies when he finds it was necessary, he’ll be glad he’d done it. 

Over and over he whips the small pistol out of its holster, fingers knowing the familiar curves, and pulls the trigger. He practices assuming a firing stance barefooted, then with shoes on. He practices with the gun hidden under his swearer, then he changes into a jacket and practices with that. He practices reloading. He practices picking up his gun on the floor. He practices his quick-draw. Finally, he retrieves his gun-care kit from the shoebox, disassembles the PPK, and cleans and oils every component. By the time he slides the shoebox under the bed, Vriska’s stirring.

The ash-colored girl sits up in bed and blindly reached for her glasses. She’s nude from the waist up, so Dave turns around politely and tosses her a brocaded silk robe from the closet. Her fingers find her smokes before her specs, so she lights a cigarette, slides her arms through the robe’s sleeves until the smooth material covers her breasts, and makes another attempt. She nearly knocks over the glass of water on her bedside table. 

“What are we doing today?” asks Dave, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

“I think it’s about time to get out of Paris. We should get started on picking our next location,” Vriska says, putting on her glasses. She takes a swig of water from the glass. “Mm, what do you think of Tripoli? I know you like North Africa…”

“Anything to get out of France. I have a feeling last night’s little stunt is going to come back to haunt us if we hide here much longer. I’d really love to head back to the US, maybe the West Coast. I used to really love San Francisco.”

“Dave, you know how hard getting into America is! Fiiiiine, the real reason I wanted to go to Tripoli is it’s just so _easy_ , you barely even need a passport if you have cleavage!”

“Bully for you then. But now that I think about it, I suppose Tripoli would be pretty cool. Okay, let’s head to the cafe for breakfast and start packing when we get home.”

But as Dave and Vriska are getting dressed to head to their favorite breakfast spot, something unusual happens: the phone rings. Dave is alarmed-- he hasn’t given anyone this number and he specifically told Vriska not to either. But upon hearing the old-fashioned ringing of the 70’s telephone hanging on their wall, Vriska crosses the room in a flash and picks up the receiver without a second thought. “Hello?” she says. Then she smiles. “It’s for you.”

Dave takes the receiver and a voice he was afraid he’d never hear again comes through. Dusky and low but feminine, with the kind of high-class Russian inflection not sullied by excessive tobacco and vodka. Kanaya Maryam, possibly the loveliest member of the living dead he’s ever met, and easily the loveliest Russian. “Is this Dave Strider?”

“Speaking. Would this be Kanaya Maryam? Such a pleasure to hear your voice once more.”

“Don’t waste your breath. Listen, Strider, I don’t know why you’re in Paris or who you’re running from, but I tracked you down for a reason. Something big has come up, and you’re the only one who can help us.”

“Woah, first of all, who’s ‘us’? I’m not exactly popular among the internation-”

“I’m not done.” Kanaya interrupts. “I’m back at the Kremlin. I quit field work to avoid Terezi’s assassins. I assume you must know what I mean. Our New York friends are safe, don’t worry about them. Anyway, I made a discovery recently. I can’t talk about it over an unsecured phone line, but you need to follow my instructions _very carefully_. Come to Moscow. You will find travel documentation in your mailbox and will have no problems entering the country. Send Vriska now, in case the phone is being tapped or your apartment is bugged.”

Dave turns to Vriska. “Go check the mail, quick!” 

She gives him a quick, assessing once-over, then is out the door in a flash. 

“Okay, now what?” Dave asks Kanaya.

“Further instructions will be inclosed in the package. I will communicate with you again when you get to Moscow. In the meantime, happy travels. Oh, and Dave?”

“Yes, Kanaya?”

“It’s nice to hear your voice again too. Stay safe.” She hangs up.

_____________

Dave arrives at the bottom of the apartment’s staircase to a horrific sight; Vriska, with her arms in a lock around the neck of an unassuming-looking man in an green tweed suit. The man is holding a knife, dripping with cerulean blood, and a trickle of blood that same shade smears from Vriska’s mouth. “Son of a bitch stabbed me!” she yells.

The man’s struggles grow weaker and weaker, until he goes limp in Vriska’s chokehold. She drops his unconscious body, revealing the wound in her shoulder.

“Jesus Christ!” says Dave, rushing to her side. He kicks the knife away from the man on the ground. His head spins. Six months ago he’d have known exactly what to do in this situation, but right now everything is such a blur. He inspects Vriska’s wound, takes off his shirt, presses down on it. He notices Vriska is holding a tan padded envelope with green-ink writing on it, as well as a healthy amount of her own blood.

As he’s staring at the package, feeling the rhythm of Vriska’s blood-pusher vibrate through his hand, the man on the ground stirs. In one motion, Vriska shoves Dave to the side and passes him the package, before whipping around the the man, who in mere seconds is upright and poised to run. “No you don’t, motherfucker!” she yells and leaps for him, clawed hands outstretched. She’s fast as a bullet, and in one great leap she reaches the man, grabs the back of his neck with one hand, and pounds the other right through his chest. A gout of blood cascades down the man’s green jacket and he falls to the ground, clearly dead.

Dave looks at her and quirks an eyebrow. “‘Bout time to get out of Paris, then?”

She’s looking back and forth from her bloody arm to the corpse on the cobbled street. The wound in her chest is bleeding again as well. She laughs, mad and brilliant, and says “No shit.”


	3. COME INTO MY PARLOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! I was too busy graduating from DLI and then winning an iron chef tournament to do much writing. Now that Diablo III has its hooks in me, who knows when the next update will be?

“You know, for people with such sexy, adventurous lives, we sure do spend a lot of time traveling,” Vriska says, thumping her duffel bag into the train’s overhead luggage rack. It’s a nonstop, thank God, and just as Kanaya had said the paperwork included in the envelope had raised no suspicions at the Paris train station. Dave put his own lumpy thrift-store French Army duffel next to Vriska’s and sat down, thumbing through the contents of the envelope again. 

“I haven’t been on a train since last summer,” says Dave, automatically reaching into his laptop bag to pull out his headphones. “Can’t say I really missed it. But then, I’m sure Kanaya knew what she was doing when she booked this.”

“At least she got us a sleeper car! What is this trip, like three days?!”

“About thirty-six hours, and we’re leaving in the evening, so it’s two nights. Did I tell you I met Kanaya on a train? It’s a hell of a story.”

“Let me guess. You tried to pick her up in the lounge car, only to find out she’s a big-time [lesbian], and after she leaves you cry softly into your gin and tonic for an hour and they have to drag you back to your car?”

“Please, as if I’d ever drink a gin and tonic. And for your information, _she_ seduced _me._ Admittedly, once she found out I didn’t have the information she wanted she kicked my ass out, but she sucked my blood first. That’s like sex for troll vampires, right?”

Vriska pats Dave on the head. “You’re cute. I’m going to go look around. Watch my shit," and she leaves, sliding the compartment door closed behind her. 

Dave slides on his headphones and queues up the new Gang Gang Dance album. His jaw is set and he can’t shake a feeling of disquiet, as if he can still hear _her_ voice echoing just out of range. The last time he was on a train was with her. It was on the Orient Express that he’d seen her scars and decided to trust her fully.

What a fool he’d been.

He’d been shutting out thoughts of Terezi Pyrope in any capacity but the tactical adversary for nearly nine months, drifting further and further from being a man he could be proud of, surviving on a diet of paranoia, secondhand smoke and the kind of sex you don’t feel good about afterwards. Vriska was not a partner, not a companion. She had no concept of him as a person, and it infuriated him. _He_ barely had a concept of himself as a person, and that only made it worse. But assuming that Terezi’s final words to him had been true-- that she really loved him-- he’d been a man worth falling in love with once.

Dave sits in his recliner seat, trying to dive beneath the pulsing beat of his music, grinding his teeth. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. The memory of Terezi stretching over him to press her face to the glass haunts him. His face is stone, his eyes unmoving behind his mirrored aviators. The next thing he notices is the conspicuous silence of his album having ended. He looks down at the screen of his phone. Just as well, the battery is getting low and the charger is in his duffel.

Vriska comes in not much longer after that with an armful of snacks and sandwiches. “I bought dinner!” she says. “I didn’t know which kind you wanted so I got you cured ham.”

Dave glances over. “I’ll have the roast beef one if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sorry, this one’s mine. If I’d have known I’d have got two.”

“It’s fine, I’m not hungry anyway,” says Dave, shifting in his seat. “I’m going to get a drink. Which way’s the lounge car?”

“Sorry about the sandwich, Dave, you can have the roast beef one! I don’t even care!” Vriska replies, thrusting the shrink-wrapped rectangle at him.

“It’s not about the fucking sandwich!” Dave says, standing up suddenly. His fists are clenched.

Vriska is silent for a moment. “...I was thinking it was strange you never talked about her. Is she the reason we never took trains anywhere?”

“I’m thirsty. I’m getting a drink. Don’t wait up.” Dave grabs his wallet and leaves cabin, leaving Vriska frowning and alone.

 

 

__________

The train arrives in Moscow to a sky full of clouds and fitful pigeons. Dave steps down from the train car, bag slung over one shoulder, and fights his desire for a cigarette. Vriska doesn’t. While the trip had been difficult, arriving has a dramatic effect on Dave’s mood, and even just having a goal for the first time in months gets his blood stirring.

During the second half of the train ride, Vriska had been a lot more conscientious of Dave’s mood. When it was her turn to be the mature one, she did a fantastic job of it... Until about seven-thirty, when she stumbled into the sleeper car with a young French tourist who wanted to get her cultural exposure started a little early. By the time they crossed the threshold Vriska had half-stripped her, and when she saw Dave she just giggled. Vriska had cleared her throat, handed him a twenty, and reminded him which way the bar was. 

He’d spent most of the last day analyzing Kanaya’s folder, which was mercifully in English, and writing an itinerary for their mission. The next step was to retrieve a folder from a certain post office box in Moscow. Kanaya apologized at length in the letter for not being able to see them in person first thing, but the reason would become more clear once they received certain information that she couldn’t risk being intercepted.

The pair arrived at the small mail outpost a few blocks from the station and withdrew the final items from the envelope: a key, along with a cypher strip that encoded the locker number. Dave had spent ten years cracking cypher strips, so he was almost disappointed that she sent him the cypher's key via the old hacker trick of making a post on an obscure forum for a certain duration and then deleting it. In this case it was an obscure futaba-channel style imageboard all in Russian, but the string of two rows of numbers was easy to recognize in any language, even on his cell phone’s screen. Mapping the numbers was easy enough and in short order Dave had found the four-digit locker number and opened it up. Once they’d retrieved the second package, Dave took the first one into the alley behind the post office and, borrowing Vriska’s 8-ball zippo, burned it to ash.

The new envelope contained three folders, labeled “now”, “when you get there”, and “when you’re inside”. Only the “now” folder is unsealed. Dave unwinds the string holding it shut and takes out a map and a note. The map gives detailed road directions to a small field in the middle of the rural farmland many miles East of the city. The note says “Glad Everything Is Going Smoothly Enough. The Next Step Is To Travel To A Bunker In A Field Many Miles East Of The City. When You Get There Open The Second Package.” 

Vriska maneuvers her bag onto her shoulders and gazes around at the city’s intricate architecture. “Alright, so how should we get to this place? It’s way too far for a cab, and we can’t exactly rent a car…”

Dave slides on his shades. “So we buy one. We have enough cash to drive off the lot with a cheap Renault or something.”

“Kanaya should have bought us a car,” Vriska frowns.

“Not arguing. Anyway, as long as we don’t do anything stupid, there’s no reason to assume we don’t have passports, and if some cops give us trouble, just ‘coerce’ them a bit. Do your psychic deal.”

“Uugh, you always say it like using psychic powers are so easy to use! There’s a lot of finesse than goes into it!”

“Then just flash ‘em and I’ll punch them out when they’re distracted.”

“Fine. One thing at a time. Let’s get some wheels.”

Dave and Vriska spend a few minutes with a classifieds magazine and the optical character recognizer on Dave’s iPhone before triangulating a used car lot only a few kilometers away. They choose to walk, taking in the buildings and people; downtown Moscow is one of the most sublime places Dave’s ever set foot in. It had always had such a sinister connotation in the past, the word itself referring not to a majestic city of lights and beauty but simply the place where Russia’s government was headquartered. 

“It’s like being in a photograph,” says Vriska as they rubberneck through Red Square, and Dave can’t find words to argue.

“Are you sure we should be out in public like this?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be able to tell if someone is sneaking up on us. Murderous intent has a very distinct psychic signature,” Vriska replies.

“Ok. You do your brain thing and I’ll keep an eye out for garish green suits.”

They arrive at the dealership within an hour and finagle a sporty Alfa-Romeo out of the portly, mustachioed salesman for only about half their remaining Euros. Once they petrol up (Vriska won’t stop calling it “gas”), they hit the highway eastbound for the countryside, following the route detailed on Kanaya’s map. The midsummer weather is nice for a few hours but in the evening it begins to rain. The sun is just beginning to sink behind the purple clouds when Dave pulls up to the front gate of what looks suspiciously like... nothing.

“This is the place, right?” Dave asks, squinting over his shades at the tall barbed-wire fence in a perfect square surrounding a normal-looking field of grass.

Vriska opens the second folder and looks down at Kanaya’s bottle-green handwriting on the enclosed paper. “Definitely.” Her eyes coast between the brown page and the fence. “Her notes say to enter through the front gate, using the... ‘enclosed code key and biometrics.’”

“Like guests, eh? OK, let’s see.” Dave reaches into Kanaya’s folder and pulls out a small zippered pouch. It contains three items: an ID-styled card with a long string of digits sharpied onto the side, a plasticine sphere that strongly resembles a eyeball, and a pair of wire clippers. The clippers have a small tag attached to them, and on it is written a note in familiar green hand: _In Case._  

“She’s got so much _confidence_ in us. That’s what I like about her.”

“ _That’s_ what you like about her? Personally, I like her ass,” Vriska says, snatching the tools out of Dave’s hands. 

“Wait, you’ve met Kanaya? Why didn’t you say anything before?” 

“You didn’t ask,” Vriska says, twirling the clippers around a long finger. "It's a story for another time." She struts over to the small key reader and slides the card down the slot. After the screen flashes, she begins to type in the long key. Finally, she holds up the artificial eyeball. The reader beeps. “After you,” she smirks, motioning to the gate, now swinging open.

“Thank you, ma’am,” says Dave as he steps through.  “But I must admit I have absolutely no idea what we’re looking for here. Isn’t there supposed to be a bunker?”

“It’s bound to be around here somewhere. It’s probably camouflaged,” Vriska says. She passes him at an easy stride and makes her way to the middle of the field. “I don’t sense any people around.”

“Wait, look at this,” says Dave, upon noticing a patch of grass a slightly different shade than that around it. He reaches down. Whereas the surrounding grass is cool and dewy in the evening air, this area is dry and slightly warmer. Dave grips it and discovers it’s fake. He pulls on it and it comes up easily, revealing a small circle of concrete. In the center of the circle is a button covered by a plastic latch. “I think I found it!” Dave calls to Vriska, who is pacing around and grumbling.

Jogging over, Vriska gives a laugh. “Well press it!” she says.

Dave flips the latch over and presses the button. There’s a rumbling sound and he straightens up to the sight of a wedge of earth rising out of the ground. Grass and dirt falls along the seams of the structure appearing, and before long they’re looking at a door where a moment ago there was only air. Now that he’s looking at it, the grass growing along the edged of this contraption looks a lot sparser; this must not be the first time this doorway’s come up in the recent past. Dave walks over to it and opens the door, chuckling as it gives without resistance. The lock has been shot out. He holds it open and motions to Vriska. “After you.”

Vriska enters the door and starts down a set of metal stairs, third folder in hand. There’s sparse lighting but it’s hard to tell what’s at the bottom in the fading twilight. Her boots make a _tap tap tap_ about thirty feet down and not until all but her horns are shrouded in gloom does Dave finally elect to follow her. 

“It’s another door!” she calls up to him. “Again, no lock. But there are signs in Russian and warning labels.”

“You’re the thief, what do you think we should do?” asks Dave, arriving at the landing. The light from Vriska’s cellphone is the only thing illuminating the small space.

“You’re the spy, what do _you_ think?”

Dave takes his gun from the waistband of his jeans, flips the safety off, and chambers a round. “I think we should see what’s so important that Kanaya had to pull us from our extended vacation.”

“I’m curious too. What’s got her panties in such a _bunch_ , anyway?” Vriska says, turning the doorknob and slowly opening it inward. Light streams through the crack.“What’s her _deal?!_ ”

Dave nods, prompting her to back away from the door. He lunges forward with a fierce kick and bursts through the doorway, scanning for targets. 

The room is large and spare, with concrete walls lined with shelves and grating in the floors. The wall in one corner of the room is notched from a steady drip that must have gone unfixed for fifty years. There’s a sign with a radiation warning and a label in cyrillic script at the far wall, and nothing else.

Dave flips the safety on, ejects the chambered round, and holsters his gun. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asks.

“No,” says Vriska. “Something was here and now it’s not. Kanaya doesn’t want us to see what _is_ here, she wants us to see what _isn’t_. And what do Russians usually keep in nuclear-shielded bunkers?”

“Are you suggesting that the Russians were stockpiling _nuclear weapons_ even after the Drawdown? No nation has possessed a nuclear arsenal in twenty years! After you Trolls landed on Earth, the UN declared the age of nuclear deterrence over and all the arsenals on Earth were disposed of! Even terrorists like Sollux Captor didn’t have access to actual nuclear weapons!”

Vriska sighed. “I know that! But what if not everyone played fair? I’d be surprised if the _Americans_ had the means to safely dispose of thousands of nukes, let alone the _Russians_. If nothing ever happened, no one would ever know about this bunker, and the weapons would be as good as destroyed. It’s even possible this was the safest way to dispose of them. It’s not easy to dismantle a nuke, you know, and the Russians’ history with nuclear fallout isn’t exactly sterling.”

“I -- I mean, I _guess_ it’s possible that they were never meant to be used or found here. But that doesn’t change the fact that whatever reason they _were_ here for, they’re simply _not here_ now.”

“Yeah. Weird,” agrees Vriska. She looks down at the final envelope in her hands. She takes a deep breath and slides a sharp claw under the tape. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

The envelope contains one item, an eight-by-ten photograph. It’s a detail shot of a small white sphere. “Is that a cue ball?” Dave asks. 

“Dave, listen,” says Vriska, grabbing the man’s shoulder. She’s reading the back of the photo, upon which is written a note in green cursive. She begins to read it aloud. “Dear Agent Dave and Ms. Serket, I’m sorry I had to send you on such a laborious errand... blah blah blah... This room was a... _storage bunker for sensitive materials,_ I think she means nukes! Uh, it says twenty-four hours ago they realized the bunker had been accessed out of schedule and when they sent a team to investigate they found it empty but for the item in this photograph. The cue ball... A calling card? So it _was_ a theft.” 

Dave looks at the letter. He finds the point where Vriska had left off and continues reading. “The cue ball removes any doubt as to the culprit of this theft. It is the unmistakable calling card of Doc Scratch. Our intelligence is incomplete as to his motive, but you can understand why I could pass no information to you via interceptable media as to the original contents of this room. Your first impressions about what items should be here are almost certainly correct, both about the items themselves and about the possible consequences of their new ownership.” He turns to Vriska. “We were right. Goddammit, we were right.”

“Shit,” says Vriska, and opens her mouth to say something else but closes it again wordlessly.

Dave resumes reading the letter. “‘All that remains is to meet in person and discuss the next step. Please come to KGB headquarters in Moscow. We will be waiting expectantly for you. You may be our only hope.’”

“God, no pressure or anything,” quips Vriska. “Now some lunatic has the world’s last stash of nuclear weapons and it’s up to the _Russians_ to save the day?”

“No,” says Dave, crumpling the photo in his fist. “They can’t make this public without admitting they had these weapons in the first place. They need to keep it quiet. And we’re expendable.” He slides his shades off, folds the temples, and pockets them. “It’s not up to them to save the day. It’s up to us.”


	4. THE SIX GUARDIANS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience on this update. If you've stumbled upon this fic and haven't read the previous two in the series, check 'em out first. Thanks for reading.

It’s thundering when Dave and Vriska get back to Moscow. The storm hasn’t hit the city yet but thick clouds are gathering in the nighttime sky, illuminated by a three-quarters moon and the occasional flash of lightning. Strider navigates the streets with care, finding his way back to the Kremlin building and parking in front of a bakery closed for the night. He and Vriska exchange glances. 

“I never thought I’d end up here,” he confesses.

“I guess this is what you’d call an ‘enemy-of-my-enemy-is my friend’ situation? I dunno, the expression doesn’t really translate to Alternian.”

“Oh yes, the whole friend-slash-enemy-same-word problem. Well I think we can trust Kanaya, and with a little luck we won’t even have to talk to anyone else. They probably won’t want to talk to us, at least.”

But Strider is proved wrong immediately as a huge dark-suited man approaches them. Close-cropped hair, mirrored aviators reflecting the dim light. His biceps remind Dave of hams. Judging by his nose, he’s probably a Bulgarian. “Please come vith me,” he growls.

Dave’s expression betrays nothing but his shooting hand twitches once; one V-for-a-W and it’s Sarajevo all over again. Vriska, still seated in the car behind him, subtly removes her heeled shoes before stepping out.

“Please relax, friends,” the man says, raising a hand the size of a dinner plate. “You are guests of _The_ _Vampir_. My job is to ensure you are not harmed.” He turns toward an appropriately huge Mercedes and begins to trudge. Dave and Vriska follow.

Strider nudges Vriska’s side. “Did you hear how he capitalized the V? _‘The_ _Vampir_.’ She must be important here.” 

“Or they’re terrified of her. I know I was after our first encounter.”

“Which you _are_ going to tell me about, right?” 

“Later. Maybe over dinner.” Her tone suggests this isn’t likely to happen.

They get into the SUV, whereupon the Bulgarian hands them each a coded ID badge, complete with a photo. Vriska is amused to notice Dave’s photo is from his Royal Navy service picture, whereas hers is from a mugshot. “God, I don’t know which one is more embarrassing. Look how shiny my forehead looks.”

Dave chuckles. “We can’t underestimate these people. They know how to use Google image search.” 

The driver takes them into a parking garage underneath the Kremlin building and begins a slow spiral descent down basement after basement. After seven or so floors of tense silence, there are no more cars, and the driver parks in the last spot in the furthest corner, above which hangs a sign proclaiming “ **зарезервированный!** ”

“What does that sign say?” asks Vriska.

“Reserved,” rumbles the driver. 

“It takes all that just to say “Reserved?”

“ _Da_.”

Stymied, Vriska frowns. “That’s retarded.”

“If you cannot say this word,  it is perhaps you who are retarded. We have reached destination. Please gather your things.” 

Grumbling curses, Vriska collects her purse while Dave secures Kanaya’s folder. The lowest level of the parking garage is a stunning vision in grey unpainted concrete. It’s dimly lit, with leaky pipes running along the ceiling and poor air circulation has given it a ripe, muggy atmosphere. They follow the man to an elevator in the corner of the concrete level. He takes a key from a ring chained to his belt and inserts it into a keyhole where the elevator’s down button would be, if there were any lower floors. But instead of an elevator coming down from some more commonly used floor, one comes up from below instead. The grimy metal doors pull apart and the three enter it.

Once inside, the Bulgarian puts a different key into a another keyhole and slides his badge through a card scanner. He puts his kielbasa-sized index finger to a fingerprint scanner and leans down to look into an optical scanner. Finally he presses the only actual button on the panel, which is featureless and white. The elevator begins to descend.

“Man, what is it about Russia and building shit underground?!” Vriska says. “Did no one notice when they were just, like, _digging_ this under Red Square?”

“Russians do not notice things we are not _supposed_ to notice. It is a skill Americans would benefit from learning.”

“Amen to that, brother,” Dave says in a mock-Texan drawl.

When the elevator arrives in whatever godforsaken basement took it so long to get to, they file out into a corridor dimly lit by odd fluorescents. Vriska sniffs the air, her usual indignation intact but seasoned with a bit of genuine curiosity. 

“Are those... Grow lights?” she asks the Bulgarian.

“ _Da_. The _Vampir_ requires sunlight, vich vould be _inconvenient_ at the moment. So ve make do.” He motions for them to follow. 

The hallway is short, containing only four doors before dead-ending in a wall sporting a framed painting of a sunny agrarian scene in pastels. The first two doors they pass are marked with warning signs- Dave recognizes the word for “contaminant” on one- but the second pair are actually propped open. The sound of a laugh track can be heard from one, but before they can look into it they are whisked through the other by the large man, only to have the door slammed behind them. An old jazz 78 is playing at too high a pitch through a classic-looking victrola.

“Velcome,” drifts a sultry voice from behind a tall chair. It slowly rotates around to reveal the slender form of Kanaya Maryam. Between her chalk-white fingers, a long-stemmed cigarette holder sends a tongue of smoke to cloud the harsh lights. She’s wearing a deep crimson minidress and obsidian jewelry, her long legs crossed and one high-heeled foot counting out staccato time. Her short hair, in an expensive-looking and spiky cut, glistens in the artificial sunlight as she regards the pair. Her fanged mouth curves in a slight smile.

“‘Sup,” Dave says, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. “Death has been treating you well.”

“Never better. Actually I am doing more good from down here than I ever vas in the field. Though I admit I miss sunlight-- this poor facsimile and some vitamin D pills don’t come close to the real thing.”

Vriska’s expression is hard to read. It’s definitely not one Dave has ever seen on her; somewhere between reluctant and embarrassed to be meeting Kanaya again like this. But, gamely, she offers a nod of her head and a brief “Maryam.”

“Serket. The sweeps have been good to you.”

“Of course they have. What did you expect?” Vriska tosses her hair casually.

“Now, Kanaya, we can catch up later, but unless I figured wrong, we have some serious shit to discuss,” Dave says. 

“I mean, we _are_ talking stolen nukes, right? Like actual end-of-the-world shit here?” Vriska pipes in. 

Kanaya narrows her jade-green eyes at the pair. “I see months of idleness have done little to dull your deductive abilities, agent Strider. Yes, we are talking enough stolen nuclear warheads to level the surface of this planet between eight and twelve times.”

Vriska whistles through her fangs.

“But before we go on, please follow me into the boardroom. The other members of our team are assembled,” Kanaya continues, standing and motioning for them to follow her.

The three make their way through the doorway into the room opposite, where two familiar figures are seated watching a TV show on a projector screen. One is a sprightly, gangly black-haired man in his late thirties, wearing thick-framed glasses and a huge smile, facing away and laughing at some joke from the American programme. The other is a blonde woman of delicate stature, hair the color of spun gold and held in place by a violet band, her lilac eyes scanning the new arrivals as they enter,  painted lips adopting a little smirk as she recognizes Dave. Rose Lalonde-Egbert nudges her husband and points at Strider.

All six-foot-four one-hundred-and-forty pounds of John Egbert rockets out of seat, and before Dave can dodge it, he draws him into a tight hug. “Agent Strider! Man, it’s been way too long! How the hell have you been?!” he shouts, pounding the Dave’s back.

“Dear, let him breathe. It’s so good to see you again, and in one piece. We were very worried about you. I’m so sorry about everything that happened with Terezi,” says Rose, placing a pale hand on his shoulder.

Dave is a little irked that Rose is able to cut straight to what’s really bothering him as

soon as she opened her mouth. “Yes, well, great to see you two again too. We really must get together more often then just when the world is in terrible danger.” After extricating himself from John, he motions to Vriska. “John, Rose, this is Vriska Serket, a friend of mine.”

Rose scans her quickly, and quirks an eyebrow. “Charmed. Rose Lalonde,” she says, extending her hand. 

Vriska draws it to her lips. “Vriska Serket, world’s greatest thief.”

“That’s quite a claim,” replies Rose, smiling. 

“What can I say? When I see something I want,” Vriska says, her attention turning to a nervous John, “I _take_ it.”

John gulps. “Um, yeah, I’m John. Nice to meet you, missus Serket?”

Vriska drops Rose’s hand and sidles up to John. “It’s _miss_ ,” she breathes. 

Dave rubs his temples. “Can we just bloody get on with it?” he moans.

“Yeah, or you could shut the fuck up. Some of us are trying to watch TV,” rumbles a voice from the end of the table. Dave realizes it’s coming from someone seated in one of the tall-backed chairs, whom he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Oh come on, Spades! This is our friend Dave, you’ll like him! He’s a military guy too,” John calls, trying to separate himself from Vriska as fast as possible.

The chair turns around to reveal the source of the voice. He’s a Pacific Islander, probably Filipino, and his speech indicates he’s American. His skin is dark, and a long scar over his left eye is protrudes from both sides of an eyepatch. He’s dressed in a cheap black suit, and a spade pin shines on his lapel. He scans Dave quickly, then spits “You an officer?”

Dave actually has to remind himself not to be intimidated by this guy. “Er, yeah. Or, I was. Commander Dave Strider, her majesty’s royal navy, retired.” He’s suddenly very conscious of his shaggy hair.

The man stands up straight, arms at his sides. “Estaban Salazar, gunnery sergeant, United Stated Marine Corps. _Retired_ ,” he recites, placing disdainful emphasis on the last word, as though it was filling in for the words ‘testicular cancer patient’ or ‘pedophile’. His voice is deep and raspy, like his throat is full of sand.

Dave steps up to the man and shakes his hand. “Well, always nice to meet another serviceman. I’ve had the privilege of meeting a few American corpsmen. Always a pleasure.”

“I’ve never met a Brit Navy officer. Your guys’ Marines aren’t bad though. Call me Spades. I’m a sniper. What did you do?”

Dave notes the present progressive tense on ‘sniper’. “Nice to meet you, Spades. I’m in intelligence. Well, I was. Now I’m a professional bum,” and he offers a smile, as if to say, ‘ _you can relax now.’_

Salazar gives back a half-smile. “Maryam told me about your situation. Tough break. I volunteered to help out. We got a common enemy,” he says. He takes a couple items out of his jacket pocket and starts the process of rolling a cigarette. 

“Scratch?” asks Dave.

“Yeah. Me ‘n’ that bastard got _shit_ ,” he says, his voice dropping another register still, the resultant swear almost subaudible. He motions around the room to see who else wants a cigarette. Only Vriska accepts. “At least someone’s got taste,” he chuckles.

“Yes, Scratch,” John interrupts, clapping his hands together. “We’ve received some data that our newcomers should find very interesting. The good doctor has inadvertently let his M.O. slip. Take a look.” He whips his droid out of his pocket a pokes at the screen a few times. The comedy programme disappears and a crisp video begins.

It’s security camera footage, and not that grainy black-and-white business either. In high definition color, Doc Scratch himself sits at his desk and signs paperwork. The camera is static, high and angled down, with a clear view of the desk and everything on it. For all his ninety-five years, the man could pass for early sixties. The room looks like an early-twentieth-century study, with rustic decor and antique wooden furniture. John fast-forwards it, and for a time the old man continues to sign papers and occasionally make phone calls, until the time stamp on the video reads 1612 hours. A man in a green suit brings in a  small envelope marked with an odd logo. The Doctor’s eyes gleam, and he tears into the envelope like a child on Christmas morning. Within the brown paper is a shiny silver page; the contents of the letter aren’t visible. The video cuts out there.

“If you’ll pay special attention,” begins Rose, standing up, “You’ll notice a certain logo on the letter that our friend The Doctor received yesterday. That logo belongs to the chemical research laboratories of my twin sister, Roxy.” 

“Twins, eh?” smirks Vriska. John frowns. 

“Yes, Miss Serket. Fraternal, as inaccurate as the designation may be in this context, but nonetheless _not_ identical. In fact, we couldn’t be more different. Getting to the point, we can assume the subject of that letter to be both chemical and experimental in nature.”

“Experimental?” inquires Dave.

“Yes... you see, my sister the mad scientist makes the bulk of her income in military contracts. ‘Go’ pills, ‘no go’ pills, cauterizer sprays and the powdered cure for the common bullet wound. It’s tough to make a living in chemistry if you have no interest in genetically modified comestibles. But somehow she made do.”

“Two questions,” says Dave, rubbing his tired eyes. “First, how did we get this video. And second, how will Scratch actually receive these chemicals? Are they going to use a courier?” 

“As for how we got the videos,” Esteban growls, “I got a buddy on the inside over there, name a Diamonds. Zimbabwean, former cartel enforcer. We’d met in Mogadishu, hit it off pretty good, went into business after I got out a the Marines and he’d offed the rest of his mob. English is his fourth language, but believe it or not, guy does a pretty good Dean Martin.”

Kanaya interrupts. “He works in Scatch’s mansion and sends us security tapes when something interesting comes up.”

John pipes up. “And this sure is interesting, huh? Via the logo, we were able to trace the package back to the Lalonde Labs in upstate New York, which will make it easy to figure out exactly what was in that case. In other words, pack your bags, we’re headed back to America!”

“Great, except how the hell are you planning on getting us back into the States? We _are_ a little bit _wanted_ ,” Vriska says.

“We’ve gone over plan after plan to get back into America,” supplies Dave, “and nothing seems the least big plausible. Not to mention heaven knows what we’d do once we’re there.”

John grins. “We can get you in. I’ve talked to a few of the right people. Not everyone is against you, Dave.”

Dave quirks an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“I’m saying you have friends! I’m sure your plans were really cool, but did you account for the fact that you might know a guy with a civilian pilot’s license and a pontoon plane full of parachutes?”

Vriska grins, her fangs bright beneath the strong lights. “We’re jumping out of a plane?”

“Not just any plane. You’re jumping out of _my_ plane.” John says, puffing out his chest. “We gotta get you to that lab. Some kind of deal is going down and chances are good Doc Scratch will be there in person. Roxy is going to need protection. Historically, Doc Scratch’s business partners were not long-lived.”

“Ugh, so we’re doing protection detail?” Vriska grumbles, grin fading.

“Would you be more interested,” says Rose in a drawl, “If I told you your protection detail involves twins?”

John goes pink.

 

Dinner is caviar and vodka, and Kanaya seems to have stocked both in end-of-the-world quantities down in her bunker, as well as seemingly endless amounts of oysters on the half shell and bloody mary mix. The boardroom table becomes a dining room as Spades hauls the wind-up victrola in and starts picking out jazz numbers to suit the cheerful mood of the room. Dave allows himself to smile; finally, a task to throw himself upon, something to engage him! He’s rotted in idleness long enough. After dinner, he asks Kanaya for a haircut and she happily agrees. 

She pulls him into a utility closet, sits him down on an office chair, and grabs a pair of scissors off the wall. The room spins-- the alcohol just now hitting him-- and he sinks into the chair and enjoys the feeling of Kanaya’s cool fingers on his scalp. The rhythmic _snkt snkt_ of the scissor blades becomes hypnotic and he finds himself fighting to stay awake. The lights down here make it difficult to keep time, but he realises dully that he’s been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. 

Once Kanaya is done, he stumbles into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair looks just like it did in his service photo, low fade and neat part. But his face is lined with worry, the scar on his right cheek still dark and angry, his eyes puffy and dull with exhaustion and liquor. His hair is the same but his face has changed, and it happened without him even noticing.

He lies down in his clothes on a little cot in a spare room, John and Esteban occupying the others. The ladies had taken some spare cots and occupied Kanaya’s room. It’s black as pitch without the grow lights on, and he falls asleep to the sound of a leaky pipe; drops of water bursting _splat_ on the concrete floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's been months since I updated this but believe me, they're been months well spent. I've been embroiled in some of the toughest training the US Air Force has to offer, much like Dave was in "In The Dead Of Night", and needless to say I didn't get a lot of time to write fanfiction, but I'm back and dedicated to getting this story written in a timely manner and on a consistent basis. I've had the story planned out for months now, so stick around and check back, 'cause it's going to get intense.


	5. SCAREDY CAT

The morning passes in a blur of nervous expectation, and not much small talk is exchanged over the strong coffee and dry biscuits that constitute breakfast. Only John is all smiles, telling anyone who’ll listen about his plane and the various modifications he made to it. He keeps trying to show Spades pictures of it on his phone, but the shorter man simply mutters various iterations of “fuck off” and slurps his coffee. Rose and Kanaya share conspiratorial smiles at his expense.

 

The Bulgarian comes around at about 7 o’clock to pick them all up in the large SUV and drives them about an hour north, to a small crystal-clear lake surrounded by mountains. On it, bobbing merrily on the lake’s gentle swell, is a rigid shape obscured by a blue covering that nearly matches the water. It’s clearly an aeroplane, but if Dave hadn’t been looking for it he might have missed it altogether. They disembark and the grumpy Bulgarian drives off.

 

“Well, she’s not exactly a beauty, but here she is!” sayd John, whipping the cover off the small aeroplane with a flourish. It’s black on top and white on bottom, which is odd, until Dave realizes the entire upper surface is covered in photovoltaic material wrapped to fit every curve. “Designed the power system myself, using what some people call ‘Trollar power’, heh. It’s exponentially more efficient than any Human solar power technology, adapted from Alternain spaceships. They would be powered by the stars they went by, and only needed a push every now and then from thrusters or a powerful telekinetic to adjust their course. Assuming clear weather, we can cross the Atlantic in this without using a drop of fuel, except for takeoff and landing. Pretty cool, huh?”

 

Dave nods. “I have to admit, John, she’s certainly something.”

 

Vriska is pacing back and forth to check out the small prop plane from several angles. “I haven’t seen this shit in fuckin’ forever!” she says. “Always wondered why they don’t make laptops or phone cases out of it. Charge your shit up while you’re using it.”

 

“Well strictly speaking, we can’t really ‘make’ it at all. It contains elements we haven't been able to synthesize here on Earth, even with the help of Troll scientists. This few dozen square meters cost me almost my life’s savings.” John says, grinning sheepishly. “But this baby’s my retirement, I can sell her for a few million down the road when the stuff is off the market for good. Anyway, pile in and get comfortable, it’s going to be a long flight.”

 

There’s enough seats in the back for everyone, but only just. Rose takes her place as co-pilot, removing her headband and donning an aviator’s headset as though she were starring in a fashion commercial. John’s voice crackles over the intercom as Dave, Kanaya, Vriska and Spades settle into their seats. “Good morning, this is your captain speaking, haha! Weather conditions are clear this morning at a lake in Russia, and we’re expecting a smooth takeoff. Our flight will be balls long, probably like twenty hours, so I hope you brought a good book!”

 

The flight is balls long. No one has brought a book, good or otherwise, and while the plane is stocked with a few magazines, mostly related to video gaming, only Spades elects to read one: a moderately recent _Guns & Ammo_. Kanaya seems slightly upset that Rose is up in the cabin, so close and yet endlessly far, and she keeps glancing at Vriska like a doe sighting a hungry wolf.  Dave listens to music and dozes in and out. Vriska starts playing a handheld video game, but every now and then she glances at Kanaya like a hungry wolf sizing up a doe. Dave wonders if he’s going to have to separate them.

 

When they’re near enough to North America that they can see lights on the horizon, John informs them over the radio that they’re about two hours from their destination. Unable to fall asleep, Dave looks over at Spades. “So, what part of America are you from?”

 

“Detroit,” says the man, turning so he can fix his eye on Dave.

 

“Oh, the home of Motown, right?” Strider says, trying for anything to keep a conversation going with the enigmatic man.

 

“So I’ve heard. I prefer jazz,” Spades replies.

 

“Hmm,” Dave says, trying to remember the last time he listened to jazz. “Like, Miles Davis?” 

 

“Yeah, like Miles Davis,” Spades says, smirking slightly. 

 

Dave senses he’s being patronized. “I’m afraid I’m not too familiar with the genre. I... I prefer electronic.”

 

Spades sighs and turns away, and Dave guesses the conversation has come to a close.

 

It’s not too long before John’s voice crackles over the radio again. “OK, reaching the moment of truth! We’re crossing into the United States now. A buddy of mine in the coast guard is now conveniently not noticing our entry, as the books say we’re vacationing in Canada, and pretty soon we’ll be flying over a rural upstate field near the Lalonde Labs. After that, Rose and I will land at our usual airport and no one will be the wiser! I’ll give you a countdown and let you know when to jump. For now, please don your parachutes and double-check each other for crossed straps and a snug fit.”

 

Dave has never worn a parachute before, to his slight embarrassment, because Vriska and Slick both put their parachutes on the the practiced ease of professionals. He and Kanaya exchange nervous frowns, then imitate their partners in negotiating the convoluted web of straps and hooks, presenting their work for approval when everything feels right. These are the kind of parachute that open automatically at a certain altitude, so even if the wearer is unconscious it’ll still open. Once everyone is strapped and ready, John’s voice sounds again. 

 

“Okay, T minus fifteen,” he says, coolly. The hatch at the back of the small passenger cabin slides open and cold air whips through the cabin, but due to their low altitude there’s no noticeable change in pressure. Everyone’s grip on their chair tightens, regardless. 

 

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.” John counts down softly, but between his words and the murky sky outside the hatch at the end of the cabin, Dave feels his chest tightening. He’d never have been intimidated by this kind of thing a year ago; he rode around on a flying skateboard, for Christ’s sake! Of course, he’d never considered the possibility of falling during any of those skyward expeditions. He swallows, realizing his throat is very dry, and thinks to himself that a drink would be nice about now. 

 

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Go!” And then, one after another, they jump out. They start out spread-eagled, and after only a couple seconds Dave hears a _fwoomp!_ and everyone’s parachutes open. Except there’s no jerk, and no sense of his speed decreasing. And then Dave realizes his parachute has definitely NOT opened.

 

A few hundred feet above him, Vriska Serket is falling at a much slower rate, her chute displaying no problems at all, and she’s just getting a feel for the steering handles when she realizes Dave’s parachute isn’t opening. No big deal, he’s got a rip cord, she thinks. But then a little piece of metal flies out from his chest, and she realizes with a start that it’s his rip cord. Still his chute doesn’t open and he’s falling _quite fast._

 

“ _Ch._ ” Vriska frowns and reaches for the buckles keeping her parachute attached. She flips the catches up and hooks her thumbs through the wire rings, her last lifeline. She grits her fangs and yanks.

 

Her parachute seems to flume upwards, no longer burdened by her weight, billowing happily in the gentle breeze of the middle troposphere. Vriska plasters her arms to her sides and dives headfirst towards Dave, who is suddenly getting larger and larger. 

 

It’s a good ten seconds before she catches up with him, and fortunately she got the angle right, she thinks, because the last thing the world needs is the two of them dead. She reaches out and grabs his chute, pulling him to her, hugging around him tight with one arm, lacing it through his straps and gripping him tightly. Then she reaches over his shoulder and tears through the canvas with her claws.

 

The jerk is bone-shattering. Or at least, it would have been if she were human, but the shock only registers as an uncomfortable yank, and suddenly they’re drifting down, still going fast but goddamn it it isn’t a hell of a lot slower than two seconds ago. But there’s no time to relax, as the ground is coming up on them much too quick for comfort. 

 

She braces herself for landing and when it hits they topple over and land in a pile of cords, silk, and bruised limbs. 

 

Dave staggers to his feet. “Thanks for dropping--” 

 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” 

 

___

 

 

When all four of them have regrouped and shed their chute harnesses, and Vriska has repeatedly shared the story of Dave’s plight and her own heroism in detail, they head for the laboratory a mile or so north. It’s a campus of big white modern buildings, and to one side there’s a grid of electric transformers. They pass through a parking lot, where they wait for John and Rose to arrive. There’s only one other car in the parking lot, and even if it were full the thing would still stand out; it’s a bubblegum pink Lamborghini Murcielago. There’s a bumper sticker on the rear fender that says “honk if you <3 SCIENCE!”. 

 

Vriska and Spades smoke. Kanaya and Dave gaze longingly at their cigarettes and sigh. Kanaya, glowing dimly in the fading light of the evening, reapplies her lipsticks in a small compact. Spades’ eye ceaselessly scans the horizon, wary for anyone who might have seen them descend. Dave chalks it up to a nervous habit. After his near miss, he can’t bring himself to be anything but relieved to still be breathing. 

 

It’s only about half an hour until John and Rose drive up in a little Mercedes SLK. Rose is driving, and John is engaged in something that casts a glow on his face. They park and get out, and John pockets his phone and claps his hands together. “Okay! Glad to see everything went down without a hitch!”

 

“Actually--” Vriska begins, clearly ready to launch into her story again, but Dave grabs her shoulder.

 

“Later. Let’s just get on with it.”

 

“Yes, let’s,” Rose says, taking her place beside John. “My sister should be here momentarily. I... Dear _God_ that must be her new car. She was telling me about it but neglected to inform me that it was painted the most garish color to exist.”

 

“I don’t know...” Kanaya says diplomatically. 

 

“Kanaya, dear, there’s no need to be kind for my sister’s sake. In fact, consider this a warning. I _expect_ you to take my side should any dispute of taste arise.” She allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch to show everyone that she was joking. 

 

“Very well,” Kanaya says, smiling a bit less guardedly. “It is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my entire death.”

 

“That’s more like it. Ah, here she is now.” At the sound of footsteps on the pavement, the six all turn to face the woman walking toward them. 

 

Roxy Lalonde looks slightly older than her sister, her face slightly narrower and her hair a bit longer, the same platinum blonde and styled in a slightly old-fashioned updo. Her eye shadow is a shade of pink to match her car. Only as she passes under a streetlight does Dave notice that her eyes are the very same hue. She’s tall and slender, wearing a lab coat that fits more like a dress, complete with a designer belt. Her leather calf-length boots click on the asphalt as she approaches. Her walk is not steady or measured, but actually a bit uneven, as though she’s taking great care to enjoy each footfall. Or simply to not fall down. “Heya everyone! Welcome to Lalonde Labs!” she calls, waving widely.

 

Rose greets her with a polite cheek-kiss, and presents the rest of the group. “Here’s the group I told you about. This is the once and future Senior Agent David Strider and his confidant Vriska Serket.”

 

Vriska has to be physically restrained from beginning her flirting routine. Fortunately Dave’s got a good grip on the back of her jacket. “Down, girl,” he whispers at her. 

 

“This is former marine sniper Spades Slick, née Esteban Salazar, who we found on craigslist. And this is Kanaya Maryam, dead on arrival.” Spades grumbles and nods imperceptibly. Kanaya steps forward and extends a gloved hand, which Roxy accepts and shakes warmly.

 

“Great to meet all of you! Let’s get inside, I’ve got a lot to show you,” Roxy says, motioning for them to follow her. She scans a card at the door and lets everyone in, then locks the double-doors behind them as they stand around the foyer. 

 

Dave feels a slight pressure at his ankle and looks down to see a small black kitten, which looks up at him and mews. It blinks its big yellow eyes at him, and then blinks a second pair of eyes higher up on its head. Dave raises an eyebrow.

 

“Ah, I see you’ve met Frigglish,” Roxy says, bending down to pick up the kitten. “This is my lab kitten! Well, one of them.”

 

“How many have you got?” Kanaya asks, eyeing the cat uncertainly.

 

“Oh, a couple hundred. Enn bee dee,” Roxy says, dismissing the line of inquiry with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, follow me, we’re heading downstairs.” She turns to Rose and asks, “You wanted to see the product that customer in Moldova commissioned?” 

 

“Yes. We’re going to need to know how much you sold this customer and what its effects are.”

“Anything for my darling sister!” Roxy sings, scanning her ID again and leading them into an elevator. Once inside she presses a button corresponding to the lowest basement in the lab. Dave gets the strangest feeling of deja vu.

 

  The first impression Dave gets of the lab is that it looks like a set from a spy movie: catwalks, chemical vats, and computer consoles abound, expansive and dimly lit. Roxy throws a comically large breaker and rows of huge lights come on one by one with an audible _bang_ apiece. With each row of bright halogens, more small black cats can be seen, milling and mewling as far as the eye can see. 

 

“The product I made for my anonymous client in Moldova was an auto-regenerative retrovirus designed to integrate with his DNA, synthesize new tissue, and replace tissue and nerve damage he’d suffered in a fire some thirty years ago, especially to his face. At least that’s what he told me. I’ve dubbed the compound ‘headbreak.’” Roxy ushers them onto a white golf cart and begins driving them further into the long, broad room down a little path marked off with reflective tape. Every few meters she beeps the horn to ward off curious felines. “It’s the first of its kind. I’ve made autoplasty sprays and clotting powders before, this lab was pretty much _funded_ with military contract money; I think our have products prevented something like three hundred battlefield deaths in the last year alone. But it’s always been a far-off dream of mine to create a compound-- an _intelligent_ compound that, when applied, can figure out what it’s supposed to do, and then do it. Here we are.” Roxy parks the cart outside a large glass self-contained room. 

 

They each don a supplied lab coat, pass through an intermediary chamber one at a time, and are sprayed down with some kind of gaseous decontaminant. When they’re all inside, Roxy walks over to a large brushed-aluminum cube that looks like a chest of drawers. She presses a fingerprint to the corner of one of the drawers and it pops out an inch or so with a _hiss_. 

 

“Gather ‘round. You’re going to want to see this,” she says, and as she pulls the drawer out, Dave realizes the drawer is an incubator of sorts, and resting in the center of the padded surface is a small black cat, with an assortment of tubes running from the back of the drawer to its side, which has been draped with gauze. A small LCD informs them of the cat’s vital signs, which are quite weak. Roxy withdraws a syringe of green fluid from a nearby cabinet and squeezes the air out. Finding the input at the mouth of the IV drip, she begins to very gradually empty the syringe, only perhaps five milliliters. She then removes the gauze covering the cat’s wound, a deep laceration to the side and stomach. 

 

Everyone watching holds their breath, and for ten seconds nothing happens. Then, so slowly Dave has to blink to make sure he’s not imagining things, the wound begins to close. Rose gasps. Little by little, new skin grows, meeting along the edges, until the wound is closed entirely. The display chirps out a steady heartbeat. The cat opens its eyes and mews weakly.

 

Roxy beams at them, genuine relief in her eyes. “Jaspers here didn’t observe proper laboratory safety. He had a heavy technical manual dropped on him. We were able to stabilize him in time, but without a miracle all we would have been able to do was make him comfortable before... So I invented a miracle.”

 

“Roxy, that’s-- you know I don’t usually say this, but you’re amazing,” Rose says, her hand clapped to her mouth. 

 

“I agree, this is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!” John chimes in, grinning broadly. “This is going to change medicine forever!”

 

“Well, not quite... Right now its capabilities are very limited. It’s going to take a good 10 years of hard work for the kind of results you just saw to be possible on a human patient in a hospital, let alone on a battlefield. However, the sale I made to my client in Moldova will fund that ten years’ work all at once! We can really do this!” Roxy’s voice breaks, and a tear rolls down her cheek. “I told him it’s far from done but he said it’s fine, not to worry. He just-- he just wanted his face back.” 

 

“Hate to ruin the party,” Dave interrupts, “But your client’s story about his face was nothing more than a front. I’m afraid his motives are far more sinister than simply reversing an old wound.”

 

Roxy turns to face Dave. “But he sent pictures! A whole medical report! Not to mention our own background checks...”

 

“Ms. Lalonde, the man probably owns several hospitals. His power and reach are beyond anything you could imagine,” Kanaya supplies, drawing a photograph out of her attaché case. “This is security camera footage of him as of three days ago. Does he look like he’s ever been in a fire?” The glossy page contains a still frame from the video Dave had seen in the board room.  

 

Roxy’s bubblegum-pink eyes went wide. “But then-- what’s he planning to do with headbreak?”

 

“I can only imagine,” says John, looking back at poor Jaspers. “Is there any way the chemical can be altered at this point? Like, what if he’s using your compound as the foundation for a compound of his own? It’s no secret he wants to become immortal--”

 

But John is cut off by the shrill cry of sirens _._ Red lights flash far overhead, spinning around and around, and in the distance, from the entrance to the vast underground lab, a series of explosions sound. “Shit. We got company,” growls Spades, reaching under his lab coat and pulling out a revolver. 

 

“Put that tinker-toy away,” says Roxy, glaring at the shorter man. She crosses the room to another stainless-steel cabinet in the corner, and presses her finger to the corner just as she’d done to the incubator. Another drawer hisses out, and under a whorl of smoke Dave can make out at least a dozen gleaming silver rifles. She picks one up, flicks a switch on the side, and cocks it loudly. A stripe of ice blue glows on the side of the barrel, and the gun emits a high-pitched whine. “I’m about to drop some _science_ on these motherfuckers.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	6. ONE GOLDEN DAY

Dave had held a gun only a few times before beginning his agent-training. There had been a perfunctory qualification test in cadet training that he’d completed with satisfying marks and the subsequent re-qualifications every couple years, and that was it. He’d never had to use a gun in any part of his job as an intelligence analyst, and never spared much of a thought about them. He’d tagged along on a pheasant shoot once at the country home of one of his fellow officers, but he didn’t hit anything and wasn’t invited back the following year. In point of fact, he’d often said he didn’t like guns much, and was glad his career field kept him away from the things. He’d been long overdue for a requalification exam by the time he retired, but since the agency he was joining used an altogether different class of weapon, they’d decided to start from scratch. 

All things considered, he’d been lucky. The philosophy of his new organization could easily have been “If you don’t like the gun we give you, tough.” Instead, the friendly staff of armorers worked with him to find him a handgun that suited his tastes and catered to his skills, while making up for his (at first numerous) weaknesses. The armorers equipped him with a small, easily concealable Beretta 418 .25 caliber, a gun without a large clip or much stopping power. His reasoning was in his line of work, his targets would be near enough that he would be able to shoot accurately and take them down with very few shots. Neither the small caliber of the rounds nor the meagre six-round clips were enough of a drawback to counteract the advantage of its minuscule size. And indeed, the weapon got him through a number of dangerous missions alive and unharmed. 

A couple years after the gun was given to him, he’d found himself in Islamabad, infiltrating the manor of an ISP tycoon with ties to Al-Qaeda. A last-minute telefax had blown his cover while he was chatting up a lonely heiress, and in no time he’d become the guest of honor for the manor’s numerous guards. Suffice it to say, there were more guards than he’d had bullets in all of his clips, and if he hadn’t nicked a Glock from the holster of a dead tough he’d have gotten shish-kebabed. Upon return to HQ, he dropped his gun on the chief armorer's desk and asked what else they had. She set him up with a Walther PPK and he took to it like nothing else. His scores skyrocketed, and he even began coming in to practice after work and on weekends. More importantly, on missions when he’d had to use it such as the Ampora case, he never reported any problems. It had become an extension of him, and he often felt uncomfortable without it. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to his old but trusty pistolin the months between Terezi’s betrayal and his purchasing a new one in a clandestine motel room in Amsterdam. It had accompanied him on more adventures than he could count, and saved his life more times still. Sometimes it felt like another friend he’d left behind.

As the first report of gunfire echoed through the cavernous laboratory, Dave’s hand had flicked immediately to his never-used replacement Walther PPK. Even as Roxy was preparing one of her futuristic-looking rifles, he was checking his clip and chambering a round. One in the chamber, six in the magazine. There must be more men than that outside, and based on how many rounds they’d already shot off **,** ammo supply probably wasn’t an issue for them. He glaced at the rack of chrome-polished rifles Roxy was pulling from. “Damn! Roxy, can I use one of yours?” he called to the scientist, tucking his handgun into his waistband.

“Sure! Ever shoot a P90?” she yells back, tossing him the gun she’d already primed and beginning to set up another one. “It should feel similar. The gauge on the side goes from blue to red as the core heats up. So if it starts getting too red, let it cool a bit before you shoot any more. You should be able to squeeze off about thirty shots before that happens!” 

“Aye aye,” mumbles Dave, as he weighs the rifle in his hands. Spades Slick and Vriska both look over his shoulders at the weapon, then to Roxy, who acknowledges their silent requests by pulling out two more. 

She hands the one she’s holding to Vriska, who looks down the sights and begins testing the action, and goes to pull one out for Spades, but he shakes his head. “I want that one,” He says, pointing to a silvery rifle with an especially long barrel and folding legs along the stock; it most closely resembles an M40 sniper rifle. His dark eyes gleam as he looks at it.

Roxy looks from him to the rifle, then back at him. “That one’s experimental. It overheats after only two shots, and the cooldown time is pretty long. Are you sure?”

Spades walks over to the gun rack and picks it up, looking through the scope. Lowering the rifle, he pulls the bolt back and smiles as the blue light along the stock begins to glow, emitting a high whine. “I’ve never needed two shots in my life.”

“Badass,” Roxy laughs, shouldering her own weapon, then nodding to Dave and Vriska, who nod back. Dave takes his place at the door, fingers hovering just above the doorknob, as the rest of the squad takes their positions behind them. 

“When I open the door, Vriska and I will go first, laying down suppressive fire for Spades to establish a sniping position. Spades, asses the enemy’s position and report. If they brought any machine guns or mortars, take those out first. Roxy, you know the layout of this place better than anyone else, soyou and I will proceed closer to the enemy. Vriska, you stay back and support Slick. Kanaya, stay here and protect Rose and John!”

His three teammates all nod, and he opens the door, rushing through and throwing himself to the ground behind a broken support column amidst a hail of bullets. He begins to spray iridescent blue bursts of energy in the direction of the numerous muzzle flashes as Vriska dives next to him, already shooting before she hits the ground, followed by Slick, who unfolds the legs of his rifle and immediately fires off a single round. There’s a scream and some muffled Russian from the other end of the long chamber, and Spades grins as he pulls back the bolt. “One down,” he says. 

Roxy slides into place next to them, squeezing off a burst. “Make that three!” she says. Dave grits his teeth as bits of concrete fly up and pelt his face. A salvo of lead crashes into the pillar, making _pop pop pop_ sounds and sending shockwaves through his prone body. Every time he gets a chance, he fires a dozen shots off into the darkness, alternating with Vriska and Roxy as Spades takes the enemy force out one by one. Their guns aren’t much use at this range, and Dave is pretty sure he hasn’t hit a single enemy yet. Scowling, he pulls his PPK out of his waistband and fires all seven rounds at the enemy’s position, listening for signs that any of his shots hit, but the gunfire is too loud to hear voices or even screams.

“Fuck this!” Vriska yells, springing to her feet. Lifting her rifle with both hands and blind-firing half a charge towards the system of catwalks their enemy has occupied, she begins to sprint closer towards the next-closest cover, a downed chemical tank that has capsized and rolled towards the room’s entrance, spilling a huge quantity of viscous fluid, before becoming lodged between a couple of still-standing columns. But before she can slide behind the cylindrical shield, her chest spews a gout of cerulean gore and she drops to the ground like a popped balloon, eyes going wide and mouth opening in shock. All her weight slams to the ground,momentum carrying her forward a very few feet to rest, uncovered and vulnerable, in a puddle of sludge in the middle of the floor. Her yellow eyes are wide, and she tries to speak, but all that emerges are gasps.

“ _NOOOOO!!!”_ comes a scream from somewhere behind Dave, and even as he turns to look Kanaya bolts past. Her speed is beyond anything he’s ever seen, even in a troll; she moves so fast she appears a glowing blur in Dave’s vision. She’s at Vriska’s side in an eye-blink, propping the girl’s blank face on her thigh, trying to slap some life back into the girl. Vriska makes no move, her face a grimace of pure shock. Bullets ping around them, but Kanaya doesn’t seem to notice. The chemical that had been in the tank covered her arm and one side of her face, and the skin isbubbling, already beginning to slough off Vriska’s fingerbones. More pops sound, and a trio of bullets slam intoKanaya’s back, blocking their direct trajectory to Vriska’s thinkpan. 

Kanaya props Vriska behind a safe pillar and rears up, her skin glowing so bright Dave can’t look directly at her without squinting. She screams, leaps forward into the air and to his eyes becomes nothing more than an indeterminate streak of blinding white. 

In two bounds she’s at the enemy’s catwalk, at the center of a dozen flowers of muzzle flare and arcs of electricity as consoles explode around her. Her shining limbs flash, visible for scant instants at a time, wheeling and whipping in a mad frenzy. Dark shapes tumble off the catwalks, shapes that might be bodies but also ones that are too small to be anything but torn-off limbs. By the time the gunfire dies down and Dave remembers to breathe again, every single one of the intruders is dead.

She doesn’t seem to be in such a hurry getting back, and as her glowing form gets closer and closer, more and more shades of blood are visible streaking her face and arms, trailing rainbow streams down the glowing skin visible under her torn dress. From human red to rust and all the way to cobalt, the only shade that’s missing is her own jade. 

“Vriska’s hurt,” she says to Roxy, almost as if she couldn’t believe what she’d witnessed, then walks past her and approaches Dave. He watches, speechless, as she plucks his sunglasses out of his coat pocket, flicks the temples open and slides them on her bloodstreaked face.

“Everything is so bright...” she murmurs then slowly makes her wayback to Vriska. She picks up the unconscious woman, carrying her back to the small cube-shaped room where Roxy had demonstrated her experimental chemical.

 

 

Almost all of Kanaya’s memories are of her death. She’s been a rainbow drinker for hundreds of sweeps; she was only alive for fourteen. But there are nights, blurs of smell and sound and chilly night air that come back to her at the oddest times, and of those nights perhaps the very best memory she has is the night she met Vriska Serket. 

In her memory, sometimes the night is in wintertime and she’s dressed in a navy blue peacoat, and Vriska’s knit cap is magenta, and their laughter condenses and floats before them as they hold hands and are both unwilling to be the first one to say goodbye. Sometimes it’s a humid summer’s night at the capitol park and they meet by the fountain, in which Kanaya desperately tries to keep her from jumping but they end upswimming around it together, soaking their thin clothes. It doesn’t matter when, or where, or how the day really went all those centuries ago. It was the best day of Kanaya’s life because it was the day that Vriska came into it.

It hadn’t always been perfect, of course. There were nights when Vriska made her so angry she couldn’t even form words to speak, and days where the jadeblood just lay in her recuperacoon staring at the ceiling, rehearsing breakup conversations. But it was worth it to stay with her, worth it for her maniac laugh and her boundless excitement and her stiletto-sharp beauty. She was everything Kanaya loved and wanted to be. It wasn’t long before her affections began to wax redder, past the point that moirails’ love should. 

But Vriska already had a matesprit in mind. Her name was Terezi Pyrope, a brilliant and promising neophyte in The Legislacerators. The first time Vriska mentioned her, Kanaya was confused. Vriska hated authority figures, and she was always whining about how straight-laced and proper Kanaya was. Why would she go for not just a cop, but a ‘lacerator of all people? But then she met Terezi, at a group bar crawl, and her questions were answered. The girl was sharp, beautiful, clever. Her smile, Kanaya realized, had the same cruel bent to it as Vriska’s. She’d brought a date, but by the end of the night it was clear she’d only come for Vriska.

The next perigee was the first in autumn, and it was unusually cold. Vriska was obsessed with her new tealblood lover. She bragged about how she was stealing the girl away from her matesprit right under his nose, how all she needed to do was get him out of the picture, about how together she and Pyrope would tear the world to pieces. Kanaya tried desperately to calm her, told her over and over not to do anything rash, that no one needed to get hurt. But she didn’t listen. Vriska used her gift to make Terezi slit her matesprit’s throat.

Getting rid of the body was the easy part, she explained. Her lusus, a massive spider, could go through several adult trolls a day if the need arose. The paperwork was a bit harder, but once Terezi realized she had no choice, it was just a matter of putting a name on the right list and a few caegars in the right hands. Getting rid of the guilt-- Kanaya was never able to. It had been her job to keep Vriska from killing, from succumbing to her animal desire, from losing control. And she failed. She left Vriska that night. Vriska barely noticed. She spent maybe half a sweep with Vriska Serket, but she’d never stopped loving her.

 

 

She lays Vriska’s body on the drawer and spends a moment to tuck the loose hairs away from her face, away from the necrotic flesh. Mechanically, she cleans and dresses the wound, illuminated by her own glowing skin. She lays clean gauze over her face, where the acid had eaten into her eye. There was nothing left of her arm; the chemical had burned it away, even the bones. Kanaya chokes back a sob and goes about cleaning the stump and laying more gauze.

Roxy bursts into the room, already measuring out some liquid in a syringe. She begins to rig an IV and connects Vriska to the monitoring equipment, before turning to Kanaya and telling her “Good job, now let me take over.” Kanaya takes a step back, never taking her eyes off the unconscious girl. Her vitals are erratic; she’s gone into shock. As Roxy begins to apply various medicines to her patient, she begins to stabilize, but Kanaya keeps looking back and forth from her missing arm to her scarred face, and she can no longer fight back the tears. For the first time in a hundred sweeps, Kanaya Maryam cries.

 

 

No one speaks as they file into the boardroom. Rose holds Kanaya’s hand, and Dave hides behind his shades despite the dim light of the room. Roxy stares at a sheet of paper from a folder, though it’s clear she isn’t reading it. John paces, hands in pockets, and Spades smokes in the corner. Vriska’s absence from the room is almost as loud as her presence usually is.

“They brought enough C4 to wipe the whole building off the map,” Roxy says, breaking the silence. “He got what he wanted, and he didn’t want anyone else getting it.”

“What do we do with her?” Dave asks. What he doesn’t say is that he knows she’s wanted by interpol and he can’t ask Roxy to keep her here.

“We uh, we take her to a specialist,” says John. “We take her somewhere discreet. We can use my plane. Do you know a place?”

“John, this isn’t a movie!” Rose snaps, squeezing Kanaya’s hand. “We can’t just take her to a... A back-alley surgeon! It would have to be someone who specializes in troll physiology, someone who would stay quiet. It’s not as though we can simply buy robot limbs at the five-and-dime!”

“Robot limbs,” Kanaya mumbles. “Like poor Tavros, heh.” Kanaya chuckles quietly, sadly. 

“Wait, Kanaya. Where _did_ Tavros get his robot legs?” Dave asks, sitting up in his chair.

“Oh, he had them made by an old friend. I cut his old ones off myself, you know. His legs, I mean. That was back on Alternia. But it’s not like we can just go to Equius Zahhak’s house and ask for a robot arm.”

Dave leans forward. “On the contrary. That’s exactly what we’re going to do. John, how soon can you get us to California?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a long time coming. Thanks very much for reading!


	7. THE HASTENING SALOON

 

  
The bullet misses Dave’s head by millimeters. He can feel the scorching heat off the projectile across his cheekbone even before he hears the crack of the rifle. He freezes, then slowly reaches up and takes off his aviator shades. “Not quite the welcome I was hoping for, Harley,” he drawls.

Jade Harley huffs, M4 rifle still pressed to her cheek and piercing green eye along the ironsights. Dressed in a green summer dress with her long black hair done up in barrettes, she would look quite carefree if not for the military-grade assault rifle she’s sporting. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t spray your pitiful fucking brain-meat all over the fucking lawn, trespasser!” she yells. The gun remains firmly trained on his head.

At least until Rose Lalonde steps directly in front of him, blocking Jade’s view and replacing it with shiny golden hair and a lavender hairband. Jade lowers the weapon immediately, then does a double take. “Rose?” she asks, disbelieving, then clears the weapon and slings it over her shoulder, running up to the woman and giving her a big hug. “Oh, it’s been so long! Is my weenie of a little cousin here too?”

“Yes, my husband is here too, naturally. I trust you and Dave have been acquainted? While it is not a rule, usually you have to get to know him before wanting to murder him with a high-powered automatic weapon,” Rose says, returning the hug and kissing Jade on both freckled cheeks.

Drawing away, Jade casts a frosty glare on Dave, who is still rigid. “You could say that. You could also say that he literally threw me out of his house just for burning some eggs!”  
“Jade, I’m so-” Dave begins.

Within a second, Jade’s rifle is charged and pointed at him once more. “Finish that sentence, please,” she says, flipping off the safety catch.

John draws up, arms loaded with bags, and laughs at the scene. “Oh, come on Jade! How many times have I told you not to go pointing your guns at strangers! Sorry, Dave, she’s always been a bit trigger happy.”

“We’re not strangers,” Jade says, “We used to date.”

“Oh, well, by all means then. Say, do you have a spare gun for me?” John grins, then continues dragging the suitcases and duffels up the walkway to the massive Zahhak estate.

Carmel, California is a perfect picture of seaside beauty in the summer, and the estate of Equius Zahhak and Major Jade Harley, USAF, is as picturesque as the landscape seems to deserve. It’s a sprawling Rancho-styled estate in white stucco and elbow-tiled roofing, complemented by a sweeping emerald lawn decorated with flower beds every few meters. A couple of high-end automobiles are parked in the looping driveway in front of the main walkway; a sleek Tesla Roadster plugged into a charging outlet for Jade and a sturdy-looking Mercedes-Benz G-class for Equius, showing signs of mechanical reinforcement.

“...So John is your cousin, huh? Small world,” says Dave, after pausing a moment to take in the scenery. “In that case, could you do him a favor and not kill me please? Even though I totally deserve it?”

Jade lowers the gun again. “...For now. But just for John and Rose, got it? Now go get the rest of the luggage, my shrimp of a cousin is doing all the work.” She takes Rose around the shoulder and leads her inside. Dave can just make out her saying “So what have you been up to? I haven’t heard from you since you quit working for the Legislacerators!”

As the two men make their way back to the plane to get the rest of the luggage, John explains the convoluted relationship that lead to Jade and him being considered “cousins.” It’s enough to make his head spin, but the upshot is that while not literally, for all intents and purposes they’re blood relatives. Dave reflects it’s a good thing that Jade never told John about him, or he might never have received the man’s help in the first place, all those months ago in New York. As they receive the rest of the luggage from the airport shuttle, Dave notices a pair of figures out of the corner of his eye; one is obviously Roxy, who he’d lost track of, but the other he doesn’t immediately recognize.

The short figure is wearing camouflage fatigues bound tight at the joints with tan wrappings and a keffiyeh pulled up over most of its face, with an olive-drab turban over its head. No skin is exposed but the telltale bumps of horns show under its headgear. Suddenly Dave recognizes the figure: It’s Nepeta Leijon, in full battle regalia, barreling towards Roxy at full speed. “Nepeta! Wait! It’s us!” Dave cries, but almost immediately he realizes it’s pointless; Nepeta means Roxy no harm in the first place.

From a sprint Nepeta fluidly begins a series of gymnastic flips, culminating in a five meter vault that deposits her on all fours right in front of the startled woman. “Hello!” She mews, big olive-green eyes the only bit of her showing through her layers. “Mew look like a cat purrson. Am I correct?”

Roxy puts a hand to her chest, clearly a bit startled, but she’s laughing. “Um, yeah, I guess you could say that,” she says, unsure of how to judge Nepeta.

“I thought so! You smell like kitties, a lot of kitties! Want to play kitty ninjas with me?” Nepeta grins, exposing her razor-sharp teeth and extending the blades of one of her retractable claw-gloves.

Roxy glances appraisingly from the innocent-looking girl to her foot-long blades glistening in the sun. “Tell you what, I’m kind of busy, can I take a rain check?”

“The sleekretive shadow warrior decides to delay purractice until the mysterious fureigner is ready,” Nepeta says, extending a non-bladed hand to shake Roxy’s. “It was nice to meet mew!” she says. Roxy shakes her hand, careful to stay out of the trajectory of her blades. With a giggle, Nepeta flounces away. Roxy takes a moment to gather her composure and rejoins Dave as he carries the last of the luggage into the house.

Inside, Rose and John have already taken seats in the luxurious foyer and Jade is pouring glasses of sparkling water for all the recent arrivals. Kanaya has gone back to the plane to fetch a printout of the most recent levels on Vriska’s life support monitor. Dave takes a seat next to Spades, who he hasn’t seen since deplaning but who smells strongly of unfiltered cigarettes, providing a clue as to what he’s been up to for the last half hour. Jade passes out drinks, graciously not spilling Dave’s hot tea in his lap, and informs the room at large that Equius will be up from the workshop momentarily.

“So, you and Equius tied the knot, huh?” John asks, his expression as ever a boyish grin. “The Air Force cool with you marrying a Troll and whatnot?”

“I admit I had a bit of explaining to do… Almost cost me my clearance,” Jade replied, her tone cavalier. “But Equius is from an upstanding clan, he’s a US citizen, and he’s not mixed up in anything unsavory, so for the most part there were no problems. Dave was actually there when I met him.”

“Was it love at first fight?” Dave drawled, before remembering on what thin ice he stood. In a more sincere tone, he continues, “Sorry Jade. I’m glad you met someone better for you than I was.” He thought of Vriska, in barely stable condition in the makeshift ICU they’d cobbled together in the cargo bay of John’s plane; how animated she’d been that very same night, what an impression she’d made.

“Look, having you here is going to be hard to swallow, but I did say you could stay because I recognize that what you’re doing it important! But don’t expect me to forgive you so easily. It would be better for all of us if you just kept away from me. At least for a little while,” Jade said. The silence that followed was heavy.

Spades nudged Dave’s arm with his elbow and grunted under his breath, “What the hell did you do to deserve this kinda cold shoulder treatment, boy?”

“Oh, so now you take an interest in my life?” Dave quips back, then “I’ll tell you later. Now’s not the time.”

Kanaya strides into the room briskly holding a clipboard with a few pages covered in graphs and small courier-font text. “Here’s the chart. She’s stable but it will take perhaps a week until she’s conscious, one more even before she can get out of bed. She has lost a lot a blood, and Trolls in the cobalt range take longer to recover blood due to their slower metabolisms.”

Jade takes the packet, flipping through the pages and frowning. “And you need us to…”

“It’s a lot to ask,” Rose says, her calm demeanor somewhat supplanted by her white-knuckle grip of John’s hand. “She’ll need a new arm, including part of a shoulder and the whole ball-and-socket joint, and possibly a new eye as well. Plus, she’ll need to stay hidden, no one can know she’s here. Or Dave for that matter, but he won’t be staying the whole time.”

Jade scowls, nods. “Eq’s done arms before, and I think he has a new design for an eye that would suit your purposes. Of course, it’s gonna take time, probably two weeks minimum.”

Kanaya’s expression brightens. “That’s wonderful to hear! Thank you so much Mrs. Harley, I- We owe you more than we can say.”John and Rose nod vehemently.

At that moment, the massive form of Equius Zahhak comes lumbering up the stairs into the adjoining room. He crosses to the foyer, wiping his forehead with an oily rag. “Greetings, honored guests. I trust you find the accommodations to your liking,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice. He’s dressed in trackpants and a worn-out tank top undershirt, splattered with oil and who knows what else. Muscles flex under his scarred grey skin as he walks.

Everyone in the room murmurs their assent.

“Very good. Now. How is it I can be of assistance to your cause? My wife assured me it was urgent; I need no other explanation.”

“We’re going to need a left arm and an eye. For a female troll, about five foot eight. It’s Vriska Serket,” Dave says, calmly.

Equius is silent a moment. “I see,” he replies, adjusting his cracked spectacles. “And when do you need these by?”

“Jade said it would take about two weeks, that would be ideal. But we need her back in the field as soon as possible, so there’s no time for convalescent leave,” Dave says, trying not to sound cruel. “She’s tough, I know she can take it.”

Equius drapes his ratty towel over a brawny shoulder. “She’s of colbalt stock. It stands to reason she would be extremely tough. The Serket clan in particular is a hardy one. Young Vriska here is descended from a historical figure all young trolls are schoolfed about.”

The memory of Dave’s strange dream about the pirate ship surfaces in his head. “You mean Marquise Mindfang, the pirate?” he asks.

Equius seems surprised. “I suppose she could not resist bragging to you about her bloodline? Never one for modesty, our Vriska,” he rumbles.

“It’s stranger than that. A subjugglator planted a dream about her into my head. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but we’re getting sidetracked.”

Equius seems surprised for a moment, then nods heavily. “Very well. I shall aid in healing and repairing Vriska Serket’s body. I can synthesize cobalt blood to speed the recovery process. Two weeks seems reasonable. If your field operations need to continue before that timeframe is up, I insist you allow my moirail Nepeta Leijon to accompany you. She tells me you have been acquainted.”

John pipes in, “We’re not exactly sure what our next step is, intel operations had to be suspended to get Vriska here. Did you and Jade read the case file Kanaya provided?”

Jade answers, “Cover to cover. I took some time off work so I could focus on this. If I wasn’t crazy I would just report it to my superiors, but then who knows what would happen to all of you… So this better work and it better work fast.”

With that, Jade stands and leaves the room. Equius regards the company as a whole, retrieves the soiled towel from his shoulder, and mops his broad brow. “Dinner is at six o’clock. Until then, honored guests,” and he turns and heads back downstairs.

Dave feels he should say something, so he stands and clears his throat. “It seems like we’ve hit a setback. But sometimes a break in the action is just the ticket. A few days here will give us time to gather information, pool our resources, and plan our next more carefully. When it’s time to set out again, we shall do so rested and prepared. I can vouch for Leijon, by the way; she has her own way of doing things, but it’s by no means a bad way. Now then, let’s get Vriska down to the lab.”

  
The next few days, just as Strider predicted, are productive. Kanaya and Roxy assist Equius in nursing Vriska. John and Rose scour the classified nets and every news channel for information on possible activity by Doc Scratch and The Felt. Dave and Jade take turns assisting them, though never at the same time. Dave, for his part, has taken on the familiar role of detachment commander, overseeing the goings-on of the house and coordinating the activities and specialities of the ten individuals in the estate. When he has time, he spars with Nepeta or Slick.

He’s taking a certain amount of pleasure watching the news reports about his home country gearing up for the 2012 London summer olympics, the first games England has hosted since 1948. It’s only a matter of months away, and the reports fill him with equal parts patriotism and homesickness. Maybe he can clear his name in time to see the olympics as a free man in July. One night after a report about the making of Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony, he’s startled to see a report on the presumed death of an elderly reclusive Russian industrialist by the name of Kiy Tsarapinov whose description matches Doc Scratch’s too much to be a coincidence. Compounded by the facts that the cause of death was a house fire and the body was too badly burned to be positively ID’d, Dave is certain this is another step in Scratch’s plan, and he’s not slow in updating John and Rose with what he learned. Naturally, they’re one step ahead of him; both of them have the story up on their computers and Rose has even called Kanaya in to translate Russian news articles about the fire.

 

On the third day, just as he and Spades are heading out to the backyard for a round of Krav Maga training, Jade intercepts them with Roxy, John, and Rose in tow. It’s the first time Jade’s spoken directly to him since they arrived. “Follow me, I’ve got something to show you,” she says, eyeing Dave tersely. The group follows her back into the house, then down to the basement, past Equius’ machining tools and shelves of robotics equipment. Jade takes out a ring of keys and unlocks a solid-looking metal door inconspicuously tucked away in a corner of the concrete-walled room, and leads them into what is clearly a shooting range.

Racks of guns decorate the walls, behind a screen of wire, each responsibly locked and tagged with the dates of last use and next required cleaning. The variety is impressive; she’s got everything from snub-nosed revolvers to semi-auto rifles. Dave recognizes a few of Roxy’s beam rifles stacked on a rack in the corner in varying states of disassembly. “Welcome to the armory,” she says, “I figured it might be a good idea for you all to get some time in down here, especially our field operators.” She unlocks the sliding mesh screen and takes down a Heckler & Koch HK417 assault rifle, slides back the bolt and checks the chamber. She shoves it into Dave’s arms and glares at him briefly, then heads over to the wall of rifles and quickly selects a Remington M40A5 USMC scout sniper for Spades. Upon receiving the weapon, the man smiles for the first time since arriving in California.

“Different than I remember,” he growls. “Heavier. Scope’s all new.”

“This is an A-five. You served in what, Desert storm? I guess you’d have used an A-one. Get yourself up to speed, it’s not that different,” Jade says, her demeanor totally different when talking to the short man.

Spades begins testing various differences in the newer model of his familiar service weapon. “Gotta say, Major, you know your way around a weapon. Didn’t expect that from a chair force officer. With respect,” he grumbles, holding the scope up to his good eye.

“Not my fault you picked the wrong branch to join, Gunny,” Jade laughs, “Don’t be jealous just ‘cause we can win a war sitting down!”

Meanwhile, Roxy’s taken the initiative and pulls an NF P90 off the wall, inspecting it from several angles. “That’s a bullpup,” Jade says, “Which means the action is behind the trigger, where the stock would be on a longer rifle. This one loads from the top, too, a clear fifty round magazine. It’s the most compact SMG on the market.”

“It’s cute! Mind if I paint it pink?” Roxy grins wickedly, assuming a firing stance and aiming down the sights.

“You can paint it whatever you want once you can put all fifty rounds on paper from seventy-five yards,” Jade says, “so get practicing.”

“Er, if I may—” Dave begins, and then quickly shuts up as Jade whips around to face him, her long hair flowing behind in a stabbingly familiar way. “I’m really much more comfortable with a handgun… I brought my own and everything—”

“Unacceptable! This ain’t a tux-and-martini mission, Dave, we’re up against a paramilitary organization. Maybe you’ve made it this far without needing a semi-auto weapon, but this time you might not be so lucky. Don’t you dare fucking forget that on the Orphaner mission in LA you’d be a fucking grease stain if I hadn’t brought all the firepower! Now I picked that one out for you because it’s a standard, middle-of-the-road seven point six-two. You get twenty shots, so adjust your strategy and work on shot groupings. You’re not going to incapacitate your adversary in this operation. Shoot to kill, is that fucking clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” Dave says automatically, then “Er, wait, hold the bloody phone. Operation?”

“Yes, operation. As in, you’re taking a small team back in the field to get your hands dirty. John?”

“Here’s the deal,” John says, recognizing his cue; he pulls out his laptop and opens it on the nearest table amidst a selection of gun-cleaning tools. It displays a familiar picture: the charred ruins of the mansion reported to be Doc Scratch’s. “Do we believe that Doc Scratch died in that fire?”

“Not for a second,” replies Dave.

“Correct, which just means that this is a move—but what game is he even playing? Well, Jade, Rose and I all agree that faking his death indicates that he’s either being targeted and wants to shake a tail… or that he’s planning on changing his identity and wants the world to think that he—Kiy Tsarapinov—is dead and gone. Either way the key to the transformation is Roxy’s formula.”

“The key?” Dave’s red eyes narrow.

“We’ve seen the transformative powers of ‘headbreak,’ or at least the transformative power it has on kitties. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that Scratch is planning on using it on himself. In fact, it’s the consensus here that that’s exactly what he’s going to do.”

Dave’s eyes narrow. He turns to Esteban. “Say, Salazar, any word from your buddy inside Scratch’s organization about this?”

Slick doesn’t look up from the huge rifle he’s still fiddling with. “Nope. Haven’t heard shit from Diamonds since I left New York with the Egberts.”

Turning back to John, Dave says, “So Scratch is killing his public persona off to transform himself into someone completely different. I’ll buy it. So what’s the operation?”

Jade interjects, “John, tell him about the nukes.”

“Yeah, the nukes!” John says, “We found ‘em!”

“You found the nukes?” Dave says, surprised.

“We found the nukes, Dave,” Rose says, smiling smugly.

“Thanks, honey,” John deadpans, then continues his brief. “The Felt has set up a meeting in Shanghai with an Iranian military liaison to discuss the sale of some of the nuclear weapons that you did not see in that Russian bunker! The mission is to stop the meeting from taking place and get any data you can on the Felt members present at the exchange. We don’t know who else knows about this, but it’s safe to believe the CIA is probably on top of it… But how much freedom they have to operate in China is anyone’s guess, as is how closely they’ll follow the rules.”

Rose chimes in, “The Iranians will be military leaders and state-department heads guarded by special military police, and The Felt are mostly former Spetznaz, led by old Afghan war brass—the 80’s Afghan war, mind you. These men are ruthless and not held to the Geneva Convention. They’re as paramilitary as it gets. We’ll ship you out as soon as we have a more solid time and date for the meeting, but for now you’re best off practicing.”

“Suppose you’re right,” Dave says, regarding the rifle for the first time since Jade handed it to him. It’s heavy, long, and complicated, with parts sticking out where he’s not used to seeing any. Firing it one-handed is completely out of the question. “I’m going to need training, Jade.”

Jade’s brilliant green eyes home on him and her fine brows furrow. For a moment she’s silent, frowning, thinking. Then, “Roxy can help you.” Roxy, for her part, knows when to keep quiet, but she does nod confidently at Dave and that’s that.

As the six break and go their separate ways, Dave frowns. All he wanted to do was redeem his name, and now he’s been roped into waging a vigilante war. “Shoot to kill,” Jade had said. Why did her words ring in his ears so loudly? He’d killed people before, and not only in self-defense. He’d taken the first shot, he’d stabbed men in the back, he’d done things that were hard to justify to himself. But they were always justified to the Crown, and his paychecks came on time, and he’d had no problem pushing any hesitations to the back of his mind. But this is different. This time Dave has no right, not his or his organization’s or The Legislacerators’ or the Navy’s or anyone’s right to go into this battle.

He’s just a criminal, a vigilante, and after months of denying it he has to admit to himself that that’s what he is. He’s just like any of the agents gone rogue that he’s had to put down in the past, any maniac waging a one-man holy war for a god only he can see. All he wants, Dave thinks to himself as he loads the 7.62 rounds into an empty magazine, click, click, click, is his old life back. All he wants—he pushes the magazine into the rifle and pulls back the slide —is to know he’s doing the right thing. Just to know, really know as he presses the stock to his cheek and lines the bullseye up in the gun’s ironsights, that he’s back on target.

But his first shot goes wide.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be done two years ago. Thanks for hanging in there, if anyone still is. I do plan on finishing it. I really appreciate your comments and kudos, thanks!


End file.
